Problem.
i’m already running out of steam.
is that okay?
i’m sorry.
a life well lived has days
without hours to process
compost
compose
and produce
my best work,
bangers only.
i can’t live like that.

a 100% speedrun
no longer matches
my rest-focused approach.
Is there a way to do both?

Solution.
Flexibility.
What is a poem?
Two lines.
One line.
Thoughts.
Feelings.
Imagery.
Sentences.
Fragments.
Lists.

What is good enough?
Is it deep?
Is it funny?
Relatable?
Specific?

I don’t think I did my stretches today, either.

I tipped backwards off the side
of the boat, and entered the under-
sea world. After we descended
to depth, equalizing 
as we sunk, we finned
along the reef. After the dive master
led us through a coral tunnel
into an open field of loose
Sargasso seaweed, invasives
shifting back & forth in counter-
point to the strong current. 
After half a tank, the waves
turned into a churning belly,
the dive a fight to overcome 
the urge to vomit, to clear my mask
of saltwater. After we passed the giant
lobster, parrot fish, and the poisoned
quills of the lionfish, the clang of metal
traveled as the master tapped his tank
to gain my attention. After I followed
his gesture to look up, I saw the shark
just above me. If I reached up, I could have
stroked its white belly, could have touched
its gray flank. Was I frightened?
a friend asked. Hypnotized by surf
and sashaying seaweed, distracted 
by dwindling air, and the roar of each 
breath, the shark was just another
creature beside me.

I was recently introduced
to garlic scapes
they’re the flower bud of the 
Hardneck Garlic plant
see it’s a lesser known part of the plant
that can be used the same way
as garlic in any recipe 

and then I said to myself,
in my kitchen
quietly
how fucking come nobody ever told me there was more to it
how did I live this long without
this essential survival knowledge
that will surely come in handy
when we have to forage for edible plants
on what’s left of the land that has gotten
Too Hot
for us to be out in for very long
well the ones who aren’t in the camps behind the fences
and not the others who we may never see again
the scape is a stem that they cut in June
to thicken the bulb of the plant
and it seems so fitting that 
giving a piece of yourself 
every single season 
is an acceptable part of your life cycle

how come
I never knew
there was more
To This
that we could have been using
more of what we already had
but we probably just threw it out thinking it was trash
and now we’re too far removed from the land 
from which we came to recognize
what it really is
something that we didn’t and don’t appreciate enough
something that we really don’t deserve
something that I am glad I now know

because I’m sitting by my crisper drawer,
in tears
realizing this stopped being about garlic scapes

a long time ago

Inclines, ballast streets
Robber baron legacies
Three rivers, lush green

The girl lost to hands that stripped her to safety.
All soulless she could be less of a danger to all,
force fed a silence, bloated on screams that curdled
through the hallways as children hid from the noise.
Shrieks still reflux up her throat a year after it ended.
There is no end to this. The IV scar folds in her inner arm.
She was prescribed empty rest. Resting became corrosive.
Even desperate doses of horse tranquilizers wouldn’t work,
just cycled a new drug trial through her, the side effects
were not sweet or relaxing. Stuck in four supervised hours
of hallucinations each week, she saw images of those hands
so brutish, dangling keys to locked doors. Now she alone
is the one to lock the doors. They will not open again.

And it’ll go faster than I can keep up
Spin me around in circles
Make me stumble left and right
It makes the days longer
The years shorter
A never ending cycle
That I can’t slow down
and I’m afraid I’ll be left in the dust
Gone with the wind
The signs flying by with my head out the window
Time, won’t you slow down?
Let me stop for gas
and pick out a magnet
Let me sip my tea
and the sun stay resting on my skin
Just a little longer 

Flood waters recede.  Listen
past chainsaw buzz
of downed trees, hear
the creek rippling over rocks.  

Beneath pond reflection
of clearing sky, blanket
of leaf and moss, turtles
resume their swim.  

Sludge and wailing subside.           
There is a new rumble
of grief, anger, yearning
for what was.  

To write through 
Every Single Thing 
That life has ever taught
Let the words flow from 
My mind to the heart 
Struggle with the pain 
Wrangle the tears 
That swell up 
From the depths
Of my center
Dangle my thoughts
Upon the edge 
Of a line 
Drape my mixology 
Of print and cursives 
Longing to land 
On a printed page 
Of my published work 
How beautiful it is 
But what is such a thing
A published work 
If you have many
A published pieces 
To be read
Read and loved 
That is
The real deal.

Daily, I migrate
a mile in and a mile out
to a swath of honeysuckle,
scrubby cedar, and falling ash,

where Wood Thrush
perches, speckle-bellied,
shyly sings me
back to life.